What happened the day the Doctor was Ginger
by casoloma123
Summary: The Doctor was alone. For the first time in a very, very, very long time. He had no companions to talk to, no enemies worth vanquishing, his sonic had given out two hours ago, and worst of all, no TARDIS to travel with.


Hello! This is my first Doctor Who fic! I really loved writing this, not going to lie. It's been my baby for a long time. It's a bit more angsty than I'm used to but I hope you like it.

It's set sometime in the future, and for the purpose of the storyline, we are ignoring Oswin. Also, I only allude to Classic Who and I kind of hate myself for not including memories of old companions, I'm just not as familiar with the older stuff. We're also assuming that there's twelve regenerations and the Doctor regenerated twice (when he transferred that regeneration to his hand).

**WARNING: I guess you could say that there's Major Character death.**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but fourteen dollars, some mountain dew, and a jar of peanut butter.**

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The Doctor was alone.

For the first time in a very, very, very long time. He had no companions to talk to, no enemies worth vanquishing, his sonic had given out two hours ago, and worst of all, no TARDIS to travel with. The old girl was gone. She was nothing more than a rotting phone box now, wasting away on a broken battlefield. He didn't know how he let that happen. He had run off to stop a stray Dalek for three seconds, and when he turned around, the entire top half of the beautiful box was crushed and broken. Some sort of projectile had destroyed the one true piece of home the Doctor had. Of course, he knew she couldn't last forever. 900 years of running… Eventually, something would stop them.

But not like this.

She wasn't supposed to die before he did. Even if she had to go in front of his eyes, it shouldn't have been like _this._ She deserved fanfare. A moment of silence as she was blown to bits. Tragic music would swell, a montage of their best moments would play on a giant screen somewhere, time would slow as shrapnel slowly flew away from the wreckage. And if he was cursed to watch her go, if whatever being it is that watches over the Timelords wants to destroy him that much, it should have been a noble death. Her end should have been in an attempt to save everyone and everything and everywhere and every when. She should not have gone quietly.

It should have taken an entire enemy fleet, the unification of everyone and everything the doctor has ever defeated, to take the old girl down. She should not have been obliterated in a second. And if he was supposed to live the rest of his life replaying the moment she died in his mind, then time should have stopped. As she fell apart, everything else should have ended too. That moment should have extended into perpetuity. He should have had eternity to mourn her. An eternity might have been long enough to for him to eulogize her appropriately, to tell her how much he loved her and all the plans he had and to thank her, because now he was nothing but a madman without his box.

The worst thing about the death of the TARDIS was that time refused to stop, it didn't even slow. He was a Timelord and the one thing he was supposed to be able to outsmart was making a fool of him. The battle raged on. He stood still. He was shot. The war wouldn't let him mourn. He had to tear his face away from her broken form and turn it instead on the carnage around him. He saw the war that he despised and the lives he had no hope of bettering now that she was unable to take him where he needed to go. What was the point in all this fighting? What was the point of anything? The world sped up to a blur, colours running together and enemy blending with ally.

The Doctor began to do what he did best. He ran. But where do you run to when your home is blown in half?

Simple. You run into the war that took it away from you and pray that it sends you wherever your home went. You run into the same projectile that managed to tear your entire life in half and hope it does the same to your body.

Of course, it's never that easy for the Doctor. He doesn't die. He can't. He regenerates.

As the golden light started to envelop him for the last time and make him new, he remembered all those who never had to endure this curse. All those who made him a better man. A stronger man. One whose heart was filled with light and hope and wonder.

Amy, with her fiery hair and strong heart; Rory, who was a better, more patient man than the Doctor could ever hope to be; Donna, the woman who somehow knew exactly what he needed at any given moment; Martha, the brave and wonderful girl who fought for him without question; Jack, a man whose character was better than the Doctor ever gave him credit for; Rose, the girl who got away, the one who reminded him what it is like to love and be loved, the woman who never let him give up; River, the only companion he had had on his long journey to even come close to filling the gap that a parallel universe had left in him; the TARDIS, she was so beautiful, so strong, so enduring; and all the others who kept him believing.

Suddenly, the process was over. He was a freshly created man. He didn't feel very new. He felt tired and small and grief-stricken.

Whatever had killed his last body had thrown him into a calm lake by the battlegrounds. He swam to the far side of it, as far away from the fight as he could get, and sat by the edge, hoping to see his new face.

He was shorter, he knew that. About Martha's height, if he remembered corr- no. It was not the time to be remembering those he must leave behind. He needed to focus on moving on, away from this place and starting a new life, one without the TARDIS and the travelling. He was just a lonely old man now. Struck, just like everyone else.

Finally, the ripples his swimming form had created in the water stilled and the Doctor leaned over the smooth surface of the lake to get a look at his face.

He managed one glance before he regretted it.

What had he done to deserve such inescapable torment?

Too much.

Deep in his heart, he knew he should have expected this. He knew he couldn't escape the wrath of the universe forever. He knew he deserved to suffer for all that he had done and all the lives he had ruined.

He had wanted to be this way for so long, and now that he finally was, he hated himself and he hadn't even had this version for an hour.

He was ginger. Like Amy. Like Donna.

Not only that, but his hair was an untamed halo of curls. Exactly like River's was.

He looked at his face again and realised that he would be die haunted by the images of those beautiful people whose lives he had ruined.

He had Jack's mouth. He had watched that man kiss enough people, including the Doctor himself, to know how those lips looked. Now he had them.

He had Rory's nose. The thing the Doctor had always teased him about. It was on his face. Right under Rose's eyes. Oh god. Rose.

The Doctor tried to tear his gaze away from the reflection of those beautiful blue eyes that haunted his dreams. He tried so hard to smother the grief he always did his best to hide. He couldn't do it. No matter what he did, he would go to his grave being reminded of those who had loved and lost for him. All the blood on his hands that he tried to deny to himself would chase his mind until his hearts gave out.

Speaking of hands, he looked at his. Oh dear sweet Gallifrey. No. Was there any part of his body that was entirely _his_? Apparently not. He had Wilfred's hands. They were wrinkled and old and completely incongruous to the rest of him, which appeared to be at least twenty years younger than his appendages.

He didn't know how to deal with these new features. Why couldn't he join these beautiful people, wherever they were, in death? Why did he have to go on living with these constant reminders of his failure?

Fucking curse of the Timelords.

Swearing. That was new. If he was being honest, he kind of liked it.

And with that thought, the Doctor promptly lost his mind. He was above swearing. When you swear, it's because you can't come up with anything better to say and everyone knows that if there is one thing you can't call the Doctor, it's unimaginative. Who was he now? He was literally stripped of everything that belonged to him: his home, his sonic, his love, his friends, his body, and apparently his imagination had given up on him. Even his clothes were tattered beyond recognition. The bowtie that his former self had loved so dearly was nothing more than a torn piece of fabric hanging limply around the back of his neck.

He couldn't take himself anymore. At least when he was different, he could pretend the failures would be forgotten with his previous skin.

If somebody had looked at him, they wouldn't have seen any vestiges of the Oncoming Storm, or a lonely angel that once watched over the universe. The only thing they would have seen was a small, mad, lonely, sobbing man tearing at his hair, desperately trying to pry every strand of it from his skull.

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A/N: Obviously, I took some liberties with the 12th Doctor's personality and appearance. I hope you don't hate me for this. Anyway, have a lovely day.


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